


Intersecting Orbits

by Elenothar



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Chris Pike is a soft Captain (TM), Crew as Family, F/M, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 21:15:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20234488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenothar/pseuds/Elenothar
Summary: Six times Pike was there for his (adopted) crew and one time they were there for him.





	Intersecting Orbits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alethia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/gifts).

> Look, this whole series has emotionally compromised me, so let me just wallow in my rose-tinted found family feels and complete denial of canon endings.
> 
> Massive thanks to alethia for the helpful, thorough beta job and cheering me on throughout.

*

(1)

Chris Pike isn’t aware of the exact details of the _Discovery’s _betting pool on him, but he’s been assigned to enough ships to know how it works. A couple of years into the five year mission on the _Enterprise_ he’d finally managed to sneak a look at the surprisingly hilarious list his crew had come up with – he’s just glad whoever had bet on him accidentally getting married on an away mission hadn’t made any money from that particular wager. Given even the thin details he’d been briefed with concerning the _Discovery _crew’s horrifying experience these last few months, he rather suspects their list runs more to the ‘how long is it going to take the new Captain to turn out to be an evil bastard’ end of the spectrum. It’s not – ideal. He has never been met with such a palpable (justified) air of caution when beaming aboard a ship before, and that he’s their new Captain just makes it worse. His command style doesn’t lend itself to a jumpy bridge crew and for all that he knows it’s not a judgement against him personally but a reaction to previous events, it does leave him unsettled.

It’s going to take time to earn their trust. Time he may not have, but he’ll just have to do his best. Good thing he’s never shied away from seemingly impossible tasks, because he’d really rather like to stop wincing internally every time someone shoots a nervous glance his way just because they dared offer an opinion.

His personal log may have recorded a bit more swearing at Gabriel Lorca than is entirely appropriate.

*

The turning point, he later realizes, is the away mission to Terralysium. Maybe running around with his ribs being held together by a pressure bandage makes him more approachable – actually, that would explain a few things about his crew’s reactions that time he got injured on Wilelus, just a few weeks into the _Enterprise’s_ five-year mission. Chris makes a mental note to consider that line of thinking later as he settles himself into a chair in the mess hall, somewhat stiffly in order to avoid jostling his ribs further. He’s pleased to note that the usual chatter wasn’t disrupted by his arrival and the glances are more curious than wary now.

He has been making a point of eating at least one meal a day here, making himself available to the crew, but so far people have been reticent unless one of the other command staff was already with him. Not that he’s surprised by that – most of any crew wouldn’t even dream of just coming up to the Captain of the ship for no better reason than to chat with him, even if their previous Captain hadn’t been an unapproachable hardass with delusions of tyranny.

It’s a work in progress.

He’s just about to bite into his light sandwich, not feeling particularly interested in heavier food yet, when someone approaches his table, tray in hand. Chris only just manages to hide what wants to be a surprised blink in favour of a welcoming smile – out of all the bridge crew he hadn’t expected Lieutenant _Detmer_ to be the one to first approach him alone.

“Have a seat,” he murmurs, when she doesn’t immediately move to do so. “I’d be glad for the company. I hear you did some outstanding flying while we were gone – can’t believe I missed it.” He shakes his head, an echo of the astonishment he’d felt when they’d first told him of the manoeuvre still there in his mind. “Donut, in a spaceship. You might even be the first to have pulled that off with a ship this size.”

“That’s what Tilly said.” Detmer does sit then, thankfully looking less like a rabbit about to, well, rabbit any second. She even ventures a smile. “What else could I have done after you ordered me to fly good, Captain?”

This time Chris does blink, delighted by the easy humour, but before he can open his mouth to make that clear, her eyes suddenly go wide, apprehension creeping into the previously comfortable atmosphere.

Chris deliberately keeps his shoulders relaxed and tone warm. “Ah, yes, not the most eloquent set of instructions I’ve ever given. I was remembering that I always hated being micromanaged when I was at the helm.”

His easy manner is rewarded with a relaxing in Detmer’s posture, defensiveness evaporating in favour of curiosity.

“You were a test pilot, sir?”

“My first assignment as an officer,” he nods, finally taking a bite of his sandwich. Previous experience says it’s going to take another couple of days for his appetite to fully return because busted ribs are unhelpful like that, but people start giving you worried side-eye if you don’t eat, especially when sitting in the mess hall, so he makes an effort. “In retrospect I’m not sure whether that meant they thought I had aptitude, figured I was expendable and could die in a blaze of entirely literal fire, or if it’s some kind of baptism by fire idea for future command officers.”

Chewing on another bite, he winks to make it absolutely clear he’s joking. He wouldn’t normally tiptoe to that extent, but right now misunderstandings are the last thing he needs.

Detmer laughs, a spoonful of soup halfway to her mouth. “There were a couple of classes at the academy for helmsmen that I feel the same way about. Did you have to do the blind zero-gravity navigation test?”

Chris pulls a face. “Boy did I ever. Three people threw up, half the class failed, and I got into trouble with the instructor for arguing about the validity of the test in showing, well, _anything_. I figured if the ship is damaged enough that the gravity failed and the pilot has gone blind for whatever reason, you should either be stopping and not trying to navigate further, or pass the conn to someone else.” A corner of his mouth quirks up. “Needless to say, the instructor didn’t take kindly to the criticism.”

“Did they fail you?” Detmer asks, eyes glinting happily while listening to his story. Her soup’s already gone, in stark contrast to his still mostly uneaten sandwich.

“Nah. I finished the actual test top of the class, so she just gave me a warning to” - he deepens his voice to a threatening rumble - “keep my smart mouth under control in future.”

“Wait, did you have Commander Richter as an instructor too?”

Chris raises a brow at the note of incredulity in her voice. “I’m not _that_ old, Lieutenant.”

It’s a definite sign of progress that she smiles in response to his wry scold, adding a rather deadpan, “Of course not, Captain. It must be that air of command that fooled me.”

That gets an unplanned laugh out of him, not that his ribs appreciate it. Oh, he’s going to have fun with this crew. Should’ve known the moment Burnham gave him justified lip on the bridge.

The doors slide open to a wall of noise, indicating another batch of crew entering from the shift change. Detmer rather unsubtly lights up at seeing Lieutenant Owosekun and waves her over. He’s going to keep an eye on how that develops, though thankfully both of them seem quite the level-headed young ladies. As long as it doesn’t affect their work, he has no plans to meddle in his people’s love lives.

Chris pulls himself out of his thoughts to see Owosekun hover uncertainly near the table, engaged in a silent argument with Detmer, conducted entirely through eyebrows and pointed looks.

He clears his throat. “Join us, if you want, Lieutenant Owosekun.” He makes it a point to pronounce her name as correctly as he can manage, having looked up the names of all his senior crew before coming aboard. Chris finds that little touches like that go a long way in showing that he’s serious about being a good Captain to them, and Owosekun’s pleased surprise the first time she’d heard him say her name had supported the notion. “Detmer and I have been comparing notes about the worst classes we had to take at the academy.”

Once permission is given, Owosekun sits down with less hesitance than Detmer had, rolling her eyes at her friend. “Let me guess, she told you about the blind zero-grav test?”

Detmer’s skin flushes ever so slightly, motion under the table indicating that she may have just kicked Owosekun in the chin. “I don’t tell _everyone_ that story.”

“Just every sympathetic pilot you come across,” Owosekun fires back, then takes a satisfied bite of her vegetable wrap.

“I didn’t actually get to hear the story yet,” Chris points out, curious now, especially when the flush returns to Detmer’s pale face.

“Ah, I failed that class – ”

“ – because she kicked the instructor in the face after floating away from her station,” Owosekun puts in helpfully.

Detmer gives her a dirty look. “_Accidentally_.”

Meanwhile Chris is busy choking on the small bite of sandwich he’d injudiciously taken. “_You’re _the one who got failed for concussing Richter?”

Detmer winces a little, true mortification creeping into her previously playful expression. “You heard about it?”

Chris’ gaze turns sympathetic. “I don’t like being the bearer of bad news, Lieutenant, but everyone heard about it. Richter is…” He searches for an aptly delicate word. “Infamous.”

For a lot of reasons. Chris is the first to admit that he learned a lot from her, but he’s never been fond of the all or nothing kind of instructor who doesn’t know how to or simply isn’t willing to compromise. Few people go through Starfleet academy who don’t genuinely want to learn, so that kind of hardassery doesn’t make sense to him. Then again, his own teaching rotation after finishing his tour on the USS Chatelet had been both enlightening and nightmarish. He likes teaching well enough, but prefers being out in space to dirt-side and found it personally challenging to think about all the ways he could be failing to prepare the wide-eyed cadets for life on a starship. As a Captain he at least has the power to help his crew – as a teacher at the academy he could only wonder how many of them would return in one piece after their first voyage out, and that had been _before_ the war started.

He clears his throat. “If it helps, the general thought seems to be that it was really only a matter of time, given the simulation’s nature.”

Chris’ PADD chimes a gentle reminder that his lunch break is coming to an end and he’s expected on the bridge in ten minutes.

“That’s my cue, I’m afraid,” he says, directing his smile at both of them in turn. “Enjoy the rest of your lunch, ladies.”

He leaves them amiably bickering about what constitutes a nightmare class, hopeful that this lunch has set a good example.

*

The door to his ready room chimes, interrupting yet another cosy paperwork session – the glamour of being a Captain, that no one ever mentions before it’s too late and the admiralty has their hooks in you. Chris looks up from Saru’s very precise and detailed report on the narrowly averted radiation disaster and straightens from the somewhat undignified slouch that put less pressure on his ribs before calling, “Come in!”

He half expects it to be Burnham, who seems to be the only to ever voluntarily visit his ready room outside of senior staff meetings, and probably doesn’t quite manage to conceal his surprise when the doors admit Owosekun instead.

“Lieutenant, everything alright?”

Owosekun is standing almost at attention, looking more determined than a chat with her Captain should really need to call for. Her hair shifts with her decisive nod. “Yes, sir. I was wondering if you have a few minutes to spare.”

Chris keeps his eyebrows where they belong through sheer force of will and instead smiles, gesturing to the nearest chair. “Of course. What can I help you with?”

She sits down, already a little less stiff, and for a moment he wonders if he should’ve waved her over the more comfortable seating area instead, but he can’t quite get a read on whether this is official business or not, so he lets the decision lie.

“I wanted to thank you for choosing me to accompany you on the away mission,” Owosekun says, earnest. “I appreciated the opportunity.”

Chris doesn’t let his inner frown touch his expression, though he can’t say he expected this. It’s standard protocol to take less experienced junior officers on away missions if their skills are complementary to the mission at hand, provided no extreme danger is expected and at least two more senior officers are also part of the party.

“No thanks necessary, Owosekun, but you’re welcome nonetheless. To give credit where credit is due, however, it was Commander Burnham who first recommended you as part of the landing party.” He smiles. “Given her sound judgement, I saw no reason not agree, and I certainly didn’t regret it. Was this your first away mission?”

She nods, eyes lighting up. “I’d wished to go on one for a while, sir, but nothing suitable came up and as Operations officer I’m not usually the first pick.”

“You handled yourself admirably, especially for a first time.” He tilts his head. “Though you’d already proven your level-headedness when you and Detmer saved my life on the asteroid.”

Owosekun looks down at that, a little bashful. She’s clearly pleased but not boastful with it and Chris finds himself appreciating this bridge crew anew. Lorca had been a fool to throw their potential loyalty away in pursuit of a throne he would’ve had to defend with blood for the rest of his life. It makes little sense to him, but then he should probably be worried if it did. Nothing he’s heard about that ‘mirror’ universe is at all palatable.

“Do you mind me asking what prompted you to join Starfleet? It must’ve been quite a change from where you grew up.”

If he had to classify her expression, he’d put it somewhere caught between pride and consternation. Not an unusual combination among those who make their own way against family expectations, he suspects.

“I always wanted to leave and Starfleet gave me that purpose.” Owosekun smiles, gaze somewhere beyond the ready room, the ship, even space. “We had so little technology that you could see the stars every night. When it wasn’t overcast anyway.” She shakes her head, back in the present. “Maybe that’s not the most altruistic reason for joining, but it was... mine.”

Chris smiles. “At heart Starfleet is about exploration and no one should shame you for that impulse.” He waves his hand toward the viewport. “Did the stars live up to expectations?”

She shakes her head, not a negation but a corollary. “I had no idea what to expect, but I think maybe it’s better that way.”

That makes two of them.

Around them the lights flash blue to announce shift change from alpha to beta. Owosekun takes her leave and Chris spends a few minutes just looking out at the stars. No planetary sky can compete with a stationary starship’s view of the galaxy.

He finds it appropriately humbling to occasionally take a moment to remember that.

(2)

Chris steps onto the turbolift nearest to his quarters, nodding a greeting at Lieutenant Commander Stamets, who jerks his head in an approximate response, 98% of his focus still on the PADD in his hand. Facing forward in preparation for the doors opening, Chris thinks he might’ve said something pithy about lack of attention, if he weren’t guilty of the same in his own areas of interest. Which do not include mushrooms, spores or anything in between, which has made conversations with Stamets somewhat fraught. It’s not that the man has a one-track mind, but it does seem to exclusively run on tracks beyond most mere humans’ understanding unless he’s talking to Ensign Tilly. Not even Stamets has sufficient defences to deflect that young lady’s force of nature.

While Chris has no issue whatsoever with not being anywhere near the smartest person on the ship – to each their strengths – it does make it difficult to get to know a grief-stricken man with a work ethic that rivals Burnham’s and focuses on things Chris simply doesn’t understand.

He sighs a little to himself. No one talks in turbolifts anyway – and he can just imagine the horror on Stamets’ face if Chris tried.

They just passed the deck above engineering when Chris hears a hollow, echoing _boom_ and between one breath and the next the turbolift yanks to a complete standstill, alarms blaring.

Bracing against the wall with one hand, Chris throws out his other arm to latch onto Stamets and prevent him from taking a header into the closed doors. Stamets’ PADD clatters to the ground, but at least _he _doesn’t, so Chris will count that as a win just as soon as he gets his breath back.

“What was that?” Stamets asks, once he has regained his footing, eyes wide.

Chris shakes his head. “I don’t know. We should still be at warp.”

“Sounded internal,” Stamets agrees, head tilting as if he’s replaying the sound in his mind.

“Engineering,” they both say at once, sharing a brief moment of fellowship over their acquaintance with far too many engineers who enjoy explosions. Or just cause them.

Chris bends down to scoop up the PADD, passing the device over to Stamets with little hope that it’ll still work – the screen is cracked through length-wise.

Stamets scowls, and not only because his PADD indeed isn’t reacting to any of his tapping. “Reno and her minions have been re-routing the power lines around engineering the last couple of days. It’s been a mess.”

Chris remembers signing off on this last week. “Increased efficiency?”

Stamets’ scowl deepens, contrary to the last. “Yes.”

Chris is about to ask Stamets’ opinion on whether the work could’ve caused their current situation when the comm system sounds.

“Captain Pike to the bridge.”

He taps his communicator. “Pike here. Lieutenant Commander Stamets and I are trapped in turbolift 2A above engineering.”

There’s a telling pause, then Bryce’s voice is replaced by Saru’s. “Captain, there’s been a malfunction in engineering.”

“I hadn’t noticed” Chris says, dry as the Mojave desert. “Tell me what happened, Commander.”

“We are still waiting on the details, but Ensign Tilly reported that an unattended power line reacted with one of the ongoing dark matter experiments. They have contained the damage, but the area adjacent is not currently structurally sound. The turbolift shaft may be affected.”

Chris only just resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Can we reverse our route?”

“Negative, Captain,” Burnham’s voice comes over the comm. “There are fail-safes and redundancies in place to prevent any turbolift from moving if part of the route is damaged. The safety risk is lower when anchored and stationary.”

Of course there are.

“Time estimate, Commander?”

The comm doesn’t pick it up, but in his mind’s eye he sees Burnham tapping on the screen at her science station, brow creased ever so slightly as she runs through calculations.

“At least two hours, sir. We have to ascertain that it’s safe for the turbolift to move at all and then override the fail-safes.”

“Lovely,” he says, wry. “I’ve always wanted to get stuck in a turbolift. Keep me updated. Pike out.”

Focusing on his surroundings once more, Chris notices that Stamets is looking a little cornered, so he casually moves to the other side of the turbolift under the guise of finding a decent stretch of wall to sit down against. Which he then promptly does, because he’s not going to be standing for the next two hours when there’s no one to complain about his lack of proper deportment.

Well, he supposes Stamets could, but the man hardly has a leg to stand on.

It takes a couple more minutes for Stamets to give in and settle on the floor, where he suddenly looks strangely at ease with his legs crossed and back straight.

“Are any of your experiments time-sensitive enough to need someone else to look after them while we’re stuck here?”

Stamets shakes his head, pulling a face at the mere thought at someone else messing with his set-ups, like every other devoted scientist Chris has ever met. “Nothing that can’t wait a few hours, sir.”

Chris draws up one leg to make his position against the wall more comfortable. “How about we dispense with rank for however long we’re in this turbolift. Sir-ing me is going to get old quickly.”

“So is conversation of any kind,” Stamets returns grumpily. “_Sir._”

Chris grins. “See, you’ve already got the necessary cheek down, why not make it official?”

Stamets squints at him, probably trying to figure out whether Chris is just going to keep being annoying until he gives in. Clearly drawing his own conclusions about the likelihood of Chris leaving it alone, he finally shrugs his assent.

“Silence might still be preferable, unless you have opinions on the feasibility of dark matter in navigating spore drive jumps.”

Unlikely, as they both know.

“Or you could tell me why you put in a transfer to the Vulcan Science Academy,” Chris says, not quite a question, leaving it up to Stamets to take the opening or ignore it.

Stamets’ jaw ticks, eyes unreadable except for the deep well of pain that even the least sympathetic of observers could not avoid noticing. It makes something in the soul flinch, to be confronted so baldly with someone else’s grief.

The silence deepens.

Chris squashes the impulse to physically reach out and offer what paltry comfort he could. He doesn’t think Stamets would appreciate it.

“Look, you don’t have to talk with me, I’m not asking as your Captain. But we’re going to be stuck here either way, no one’s listening, I’m not going to tell anyone, and I’m offering a sympathetic ear.” A storm is brewing in Stamets’ expression, so Chris continues, speaking a little faster. “I wasn’t here for what happened. I don’t personally know you or Doctor Culber. Sometimes it helps when there’s no… baggage.”

Chris falls silent, almost certain he has screwed that up six ways from Sunday, but he doesn’t regret trying. Stamets has the look of someone who’s only just managing to keep himself afloat, though you’d never know it from his work, and Chris refuses to offer _nothing_ in the face of that.

He leans his head back against the cool wall of the turbolift, rests his gaze on the closed doors, and gives Stamets what privacy he can in these cramped quarters.

Stamets’ voice is quiet, barely above a whisper when he finally speaks, startling Chris from the meditative pulse of his thoughts.

“Have you ever listened to Kasseelian opera?”

Chris tilts his head, freely letting his confusion show even as he answers. “Recordings, yes. The music is beautiful, but I can’t say I think much of the concept of prima donnas committing suicide after the last note.”

He sees that land on Stamets, a flinch the man can’t hide, and wonders why.

“Hugh loved it,” Stamets says, such bitterness in every syllable. “I always hated it. Now he’s gone and I can’t listen to anything else.”

“Does it help?”

Stamets squints at him suspiciously. “You don’t have some kind of degree in _psychology_, do you?”

Chris isn’t quite sure what the emphasis is meant to say (surely a man whose entire field boils down to ‘near-magical mushrooms’ can’t judge?), but answers readily enough. “Not at all. Although I have in the past spent entirely too much time with Admiral Cornwell. Something was bound to rub off.”

Stamets is still scowling.

Chris sighs. “Look, if I spent time psychoanalysing my crew I would never get anything done, much less effectively captain this ship. Stop being contrary for being contrary’s sake and answer the question.”

That finally wrings something resembling a smile out of Stamets. “But Captain, I _am _contrary, and have no intention of pretending otherwise.”

If there’s one thing Chris likes about the _Discovery_, is that all its senior crew seem to be straight shooters. He doesn’t have to try to be politic with his words, though _care_ is of course still needed.

But he has made his point, so he just waits Stamets out. Now that the man has started talking, logic would dictate that he will see it through. ‘Might as well’ is a surprisingly useful attitude on a starship, as long as it’s not uttered by an engineer or scientist on their fourth consecutive shift.

Stamets sighs. “It reminds me of him. But the whole ship is nothing but a reminder, so I wouldn’t say that _helps_.”

Chris puts two and two together. “That’s why you requested the transfer.”

Stamets nods, something tired in the lines around his eyes. “It was a good offer and the idea of a clean break was… appealing.”

“Not anymore?”

“No, it still is, but now it won’t be. I’m stuck on the Discovery until this mission is over and no one has any clue how long that will take, or if the position will still be open by then.”

“The _logical_ thing would be to factor things beyond your control into the Academy’s decision,” Chris says, wry, “but I take your point.” He hesitates, a complicated but perhaps necessary offer on the tip of his tongue. It’s the tired slump of Stamets’ shoulders that convinces him. “We can divert to the nearest starbase to drop you off, if you want it. Keeping you here for expediency’s sake when all you see is ghosts is cruel, and Starfleet doesn’t usually stand for cruelty.”

It’s the first time in their acquaintance that he has truly surprised Stamets.

“Wouldn’t that go directly against your orders?”

“It’d take some, let’s say, creative interpretation,” Chris acknowledges, “but I’m willing to give it a shot. If bureaucracy is good for something it’s pulling bullshit justifications out of your ass that the brass can’t technically argue with. We’d think of something.”

“It’s a” - he hesitates over the next word - “_kind_ offer, but I have committed to the mission now. There are people on the _Discovery _I want to support.” A smirk passes over his face, which more than his words reassures Chris that he means what he says. “Besides, I need to keep Reno from taking over the engineering bay with her grease monkey ways.”

Chris raises a brow. “Want to fill me in on exactly why the two of you go at it like cats and dogs?”

Stamets crosses his arms over his chest. “Aside from her being convinced everything can be fixed with duct tape, having no respect for biology or the spore drive, and being unable to open her mouth without something acerbic enough to melt the bulkheads coming out?”

“Aside from all the things you throw back at her in equal measure, yes,” Chris says, amused. He had only witnessed one full blown _discussion_ between the two officers, and had frankly found the entire episode hilarious enough that keeping a straight face had required not inconsiderable effort. If ever there were two peas in a pod, those two are it.

Amusement is wiped away at Stamets’ next words.

“Hugh would’ve loved her. Kept ten crew members alive for months with sheer engineering genius, stubbornness and self-acquired medical knowledge, gives me no end of shit, smart-mouthed...”

Chris cocks his head. “You do have a lot in common, Mr Stamets.”

Now it’s Stamets’ turn to raise an enquiring eyebrow, clocking to the underlying meaning that Chris hadn’t meant to let slip.

Chris shakes his head. “It’s not my story to tell.” Especially since he only knows Reno’s history due to the Captain’s access to the detailed files of every crewmember. Some days that still feels like cheating. “Maybe one day she’ll tell you.”

Stamets seems to accept that, properly resting his head against the turbolift wall for the first time. He’s a little less tightly wound now, though Chris doubts it’ll last long, but it’s enough for him to decide to leave the heavier matters be.

“So, tell me more about the mushroom highway,” Chris says, just to see the incredulous look on Stamets’ face.

After an hour and a half of asking questions about the spore drive that are just smart enough that Stamets can’t entirely decide that his new Captain is an idiot on top of being annoying (and Chris actually learns something), interrupted only by the occasional update over the comm, Saru’s heads up that they’re about to be released from their confinement is probably the only thing that saves Stamets from a court martial for attempting to murder a Starfleet Captain.

“That’s good news,” Pike says, standing with a lot of internal groaning about stiff muscles. “Get us out of here, Commander.”

On the whole, it could’ve gone worse. Chris’ questions kept them both occupied enough that the time didn’t drag unduly and his stomach is only just starting to complain about the lack of food.

Stamets, looking somewhere between relieved and incensed, has apparently come to the same conclusion, because he ends up shaking his head, a little rueful. “Maybe you should take up sleight of hand as a hobby, Captain.”

He winks, just as the turbolift finally starts moving again. “Who says I haven’t?”

Stamets only rolls his eyes.

When he next turns up in engineering, Stamets acknowledges him with a much warmer nod than previously, before launching right back into yet another argument with Reno.

(3)

The buzz of his door chime drags Chris out of a beautifully heavy sleep. Groaning quietly – the glamorous life of a starship Captain indeed – he drags himself out of bed, quickly checks that his baggy sleep pants and shirt haven’t ridden up in embarrassing places and goes to open the door.

Michael Burnham stands on his threshold, PADD in hand and eyes wide. Her gaze flicks down his form before coming to rest somewhere over his shoulder. She’s holding on to her PADD rather strongly, but Chris is too sleep-mussed to think about it too much.

“What is it, Commander?”

His voice snaps her out of it and she sounds normal when she reports, “Sorry to wake you, sir, but the USS _Endeavour_ just sent over scans they picked up on a planet flyby. They’re similar to the red angel signals, though not entirely concurrent. The _Endeavour _is on an urgent diplomatic mission and couldn’t stay to investigate.”

Chris blinks, trying to clear lingering sleepiness from his eyes, and draws a distracted hand through his hair.

“I’ll meet you on the bridge in ten.”

Burnham nods and executes an about-turn that would’ve made an old Earth drill sergeant proud. Chris frowns after her for a moment, then shakes his head and goes to get dressed.

By the time he reaches the bridge, most of the senior crew is assembled, and a glance at her cues Burnham to throw up the data they received on the screen for all to see.

“There are definite similarities between the few measurements we were able to take of the red signals and the measurements the _Endeavour _sent,” Burnham says, highlighting a couple of graphs. “Especially in terms of energy output and low level radiation.” She turns to Chris. “It’s not the same, but similar enough I would recommend a closer look as long as no other signal appears.”

Chris, who has always been on the command track and done his time in engineering, has never even been close to becoming a scientist, which makes having a supremely competent science officer a blessing.

He turns to Detmer. “Input the coordinates, Lieutenant Detmer. Maximum warp.”

She turns back to her station. “Yes, sir.”

From space the planet looks unassuming, but Burnham’s excited murmuring seems to suggest that the measurements are at least interesting, though Chris privately has some doubts about how useful this is all gonna turn out to be.

“The readings are originating from a single location on the planet,” Burnham announces.

Chris’ eyebrow rises at the picture splashed over the screen. The structure is clearly not natural, yet looks unlike anything Chris has ever seen, angular in a protective kind of way.

“I can’t get a read on the structure’s material.” Her frown is clear in Burnham’s voice and Chris suppresses a smile. She doesn’t like not knowing things. Just like Spock, who gets all uptight whenever it happens. “It may be an unknown substance, but there’s also interference inhibiting the scanners. The _Endeavour _wasn’t close enough to realise just how strong some of these energy readings are.”

On Chris’ other side, Saru shifts, a preoccupied expression on his face. “Is it possible to enhance the area around the gateway? It looks like there may be writing inscribed.”

Detmer taps on her screen and the image zooms in further, a little out of focus now but clear enough still to determine that Saru had been right. Symbols are etched into the structure all around the entrance.

“Captain, I believe this is an ancient form of Andorian. Permission to join the away mission to decipher its contents?”

Chris frowns. They’re nowhere near the alpha quadrant, so Andorian doesn’t make much sense.

“We do not have a qualified linguist on board,” Saru points out, mistaking Chris’ hesitation for reservation.

He doesn’t like depriving the ship of its two most senior officers, but Saru is right. Chris gives a curt nod and turns to Burnham. “Commander Burnham, you’ll be in command while we’re down on the planet. We’ll also take someone from engineering to have a look at what could’ve constructed the building.”

Burnham doesn’t exactly look thrilled, frowning at Chris in disapprobation that’s probably hiding stringent thoughts on Captains who got themselves nearly killed just recently and are now taking the first officer on an away mission and leaving the ship in the hands of someone who hasn’t been solely in command for a while now. Vulcan-raised people are expressive that way.

Chris is well aware of all these points, but for once he has an iron-clad excuse for going on every away mission. The admiralty had made it quite clear they expect him to _personally _oversee all aspects of this critical mission. He had rankled at that a bit, even before he’d met the crew of the _Discovery_, not liking the underlying implications, but in the end he chose to read it as their confidence in him, rather than lack of confidence in them.

“We can’t beam you right to the structure,” Burnham announces, irritation already hidden behind her usual stoic expression again, hands flying over her screen. “The energy readings throw the transporter off.”

Chris nods, standing. “Get us as close as you can, we’ll hike the rest. Burnham, take whatever measurements you can from up here while we’re gone.”

“Yes, sir.”

Chris is slightly surprised to find that it’s Commander Jett Reno who meets them in the transporter room. He has no objection – the crew has already adopted her and she does good work – but he had pegged her as someone more comfortable crawling all over a ship than going on away missions.

“Someone said ‘possible new metal’,” Reno shrugs, joining them on the transporter pad. “Couldn’t let anyone else have that.”

But there’s something else on her face, almost like longing, and Chris mentally slaps himself upside the head. Reno spent six months in a barely safe emergency structure on a failing asteroid and has been stuck shipside since then. Anyone would want to feel fresh air on their face.

It’s not quite the most mismatched away party Chris has ever participated in, but only because of that one time involving Admiral Archer, one of Archer’s dogs, and a very exasperated Phil Boyce, which he tries his best to never think about.

They arrive on the planet in a bloom of golden sparks that never quite gets old.

“Is it just me or is this planet slightly...off?” Chris asks, squinting at the burst of colour from a nearby plant. Between one blink and the next the plant has returned to a flat green.

“Like the beginnings of a bad trip, you mean?” Reno pokes her foot at what looks like a stone but turns out to be malleable. “Yeah.”

“Fauna and minerals do appear to be unusually physically changeable,” Saru puts in, tricorder out and scanning. “The equipment is suffering from the same interference as the transporters.”

“Of course it is,” Chris mutters. “Let’s just get to the structure.”

They set off, at first silently, still watchful for any surprises. For Chris’ part, it’s because he wants to leave Reno in peace to enjoy the air and sunlight, and he still doesn’t quite have a handle on Saru, which he probably shouldn’t be trying to change while on an away mission of all times. Perhaps working with Number One for five years has spoiled him, but he finds the entirely professional distance between Saru and him a little uncomfortable. That’s on him, and he can’t fault Saru for his hesitance given the circumstances. It’s just that with Number One he’s 100% certain that she’ll call him on any of his shit and while he believes Saru would do the same it’s harder to _know_ when the first officer in question doesn’t speak freely around him.

Or at least that has been Chris’ read on the situation, which is why he’s more than a little surprised when Saru speaks up some ten minutes into their trek.

“How are you finding the _Discovery _so far, Captain Pike?”

Chris smiles, surprise evaporating. It speaks well of Saru that he takes his job seriously enough to ask the question no matter his personal feelings. Chris has never put too much stock into the old adage ‘a happy Captain makes for a happy crew’ – the reverse seems rather more apt – but even he would concede that it doesn’t hurt.

“Very well, Mr Saru, despite the circumstances. I hope I’m not the only one who feels that way.”

Saru’s tone of voice is entirely non-committal. “You integrated well with the crew.”

“Better than you were expecting,” Chris says, eyes shrewd.

Saru looks fidgety. Well, more fidgety than usual.

Chris sighs.

“It’s alright, Commander, I didn’t – and won’t – take offense. You’re allowed your reservations.”

“Perhaps, Captain. But I did not mean to make them overt.”

Chris flashes a brief smile in Saru’s direction, more wry than anything else. “It really is no matter. If I couldn’t cope with professional distance and a little bit of suspicion I wouldn’t have made it this far. And the rest of the crew has been welcoming.”

That turns out to not have been the right thing to say. Saru winces, making a clicking noise in the back of his throat that might be embarrassment, or shame or something entirely different. Chris really needs to find someone who can interpret Kelpien sounds and gestures reliably and pick their brain.

Finally, Saru says, “I should have made more of an effort.”

“Why?” Chris asks, frank. “You had never met me and there I was, swooping in to take your place as Captain on the ship you’ve devoted yourself to. Anyone would be a little put out.”

Saru’s reply is so quiet Chris has to strain to hear it. “A Kelpien’s danger sense is very evolved, sir. You never once tripped it.”

Chris stares at him, blinks a couple of times, and has to spend another moment to modulate his voice to slightly below ‘incredulous’. “Saru, just because I didn’t present as an outright _danger_ doesn’t mean you have to like me. Or even be comfortable around me. That’s literally the lowest bar you can clear, and I say that knowing some of what you and your crew has been through these last few months.”

Saru sighs, silent for a while as he thinks that over. “The fact that we’re having this conversation in the first place, Captain, implies that I should have given you the benefit of the doubt more freely. But I acknowledge your point.”

“No idea what either of you are complaining about,” Reno calls from behind, sounding irritated. “Last three ships I was on it took months to break the Captain in. The one before couldn’t hack it and left after three.”

Chris swallows laughter. “You’re ruining the mystique of the position, Commander.”

Reno’s snort is almost unnaturally eloquent. “Only Captains and Ensigns think there is any to begin with.”

“A wonder you can put up with us as much as you do,” Chris shoots back, ignoring the slightly strangled noises of mixed amusement and outrage coming from Saru’s direction.

“We all have our crosses to bear.”

Curiosity also seems to be one of those crosses. A few minutes later Reno is lagging behind, inspecting a clump of metal-looking rock, which is apparently interesting enough to cause a whole spate of distracted muttering. As long as she stays within view, Chris is willing to let it go. The terrain is even and so far they haven’t encountered anything even remotely dangerous.

He really should know better.

One minute Saru’s left hoof hovers over an innocuous bit of ground surrounded by the colour-changing plants, the next it finds only emptiness. Saru stumbles forward, Chris lunges and just manages to get a grip on Saru’s leg before the Kelpien pitches over into the hole that has opened up underneath his body.

Illogically, as he slams into the ground, all he can think is that Saru’s leg is so thin he should worry about snapping it with his grip, even though _rationally_ he knows that Kelpiens are both stronger and more durable than humans and if anyone’s going to have anything snapped it’s him.

The shock of holding onto Saru’s body weight travels through Chris’ arm into his torso, adding to his just-healed ribs’ misery at impacting the ground quite so hard. He grits his teeth against the strain, hooks one leg around one of the plants, pushes back on the ground with his free hand and starts attempting to pull Saru back from the edge he’s half dangling over.

He might not have succeeded – Saru is _much_ heavier than he looks – but Saru does a strange twist with his torso that allows him to get one arm and side back onto even ground, and from there it only takes a bit of huffing and puffing until the rest of him is lying on the ground next to Chris as well.

“Thank you, Captain,” Saru gets out.

“Don’t mention it,” Chris replies, voice a little tight still. His heart rate is calming down again and the pain in his muscles recedes. He’s still going to take another moment just to lie here though because Chris Pike is no fool.

Reno’s voice drifts over. “Are you two lummoxes still alive?”

“Your concern is duly noted, Commander,” Chris calls back, not even bothering to hide the sarcasm, “but we’re fine.”

He heaves himself to his feet and offers his hand to Saru, who grips it firmly to fold himself upright.

“Any idea what that was?” Chris asks, looking at the hole in the ground he could’ve sworn hadn’t been there a couple of minutes ago. All around the edge, plants flash colourfully.

“Some sort of trap?” Saru looks over the edge of the hole a little mournfully, his tricorder glinting back at him from the bottom, clearly broken. “The plants make for an efficient distraction.”

“How did it look like the ground though? An illusion?”

Saru shakes his head. “I suspect it’s the same colour-changing property the plants display. If the rocks and minerals are capable of it too, they could assume any colour as a sort of camouflage.”

Chris opens his mouth to ask _why_, then thinks better of it. He has spent enough time in the presence of opinionated science officers (Spock) to have heard the lecture about thorough testing being needed to support a hypothesis (also Spock), as well as the one on not ascribing motivation to inanimate objects (Spock again, and more recently his sister).

“We’ll shelve the question for later,” he decides, turning to Reno who has finally caught up with them.

“You found a hole,” Renos says, deadpan. “The only hole for miles even, well done.”

“Do you talk like this to every commanding officer or just the ones you know will let you get away with it?” Chris asks dryly.

“I don’t discriminate. Wasn’t recruited for my manners.”

“No, just for being damn good at engineering.” He pauses, an idea flickering through his mind. There’re precious few people on the ship who would even be willing to be that informal with him, off duty or not. He catches first Reno’s gaze, then Saru’s. “Both of you are good at keeping me grounded. Would you consider calling me Chris when we’re off duty?”

It would be nice to have a reminder now and then what his first name sounds like spoken by someone else.

Saru’s step hitches in surprise, while Reno’s eyebrows jump to her hairline. “Your reaction to me insulting you is to offer me use of your first name?”

“Yes.”

She squints at him, as if unsure whether he’s joking. “You’re a weird one.”

Chris shrugs, a little helpless. He means it, after all. “So I’ve been told.”

He bears her scrutiny for another few moments, then she smiles, a small but bright thing that lights up the entirety of her face in unexpected ways. “Then it’s Jett.”

Chris nods at her, accepting the gesture for what it is. Then he turns to Saru, who had kept quiet so far. Chris is about to offer him an out, when one of the few smiles he has seen from the Kelpien so far emerges.

“It would be an honour, Captain. Human first names remind me of my home world.”

Chris returns the smile, a little bit of weight lifting off his shoulders. They’ve made good, _unexpected _strides today, him and Saru. It gives even more hope for the future.

Finally Saru clears his throat.

“We should arrive at the structure in a few minutes.”

Chris nods, hand straying to his phaser for only a second before he gets his unease under control. This whole planet is making him think a little too much of Talos, where his senses also betrayed him (is it too much to ask for planets where what his eyes see is also what is real?), and he doesn’t need that right now.

“Yes, quite right, Commander, heads in the game.”

Given the rest of the planet, he’s certainly not going to assume that the structure will be benign. The inner voice that has started sounding more and more like Spock in recent times reminds him that it’s not the structure itself that should be ascribed benignity, but the builders of the structure, but for Chris the distinction is largely academic – the end result is the same. Which is possibly why he didn’t become a scientist and stuck with tactics wherever he could throughout his academy years.

They approach cautiously, some of the edges of the building looking sharp enough to cut, glinting strangely in the light, but they reach the entrance gate without incident.

Chris hands Saru his own tricorder so he can start cataloguing the inscriptions all around the arch. Reno is pressing her scanner to the wall, taking measurements of the material, which leaves Chris as the lookout. In the shadow of the building overhang unease prickles down his spine. Something about the aura of this place unsettles him, for all that the scanners insist they’re the only life forms.

“Commander Burnham was right,” Reno calls a few moments later. “This isn’t like any metal I’ve ever heard of, and believe me, I’d have heard about it if it were in the Federation databanks.”

Chris takes a closer look at the wall, noting the blueish highlights of the metal that seem to warp slightly depending on the light’s angle. “Take a sample if you can.”

“Already on it,” she replies, at the same time as Saru lowers the tricorder, finished with his documentation.

“Ready to explore the inside?” Chris asks, waiting for their nods before preceding through the gateway, one hand hovering near his phaser.

Whatever he may have expected, a large hall filled with orange-white crystals wasn’t it.

“Any idea what we’re looking at?” he asks the world in general.

Reno’s eyes are wide, reflecting the orange glow of the crystals set in the walls all around them. “Beats me, sir.”

“Saru?”

Saru shakes his head. “I do not know, Captain. But the scanners confirm that these crystals are the source of the measurements that brought us here.”

Chris shivers again. There’s a hint of a _whisper _in the air, as if the stones are chattering away to each other and it feels foreboding somehow. Like he’s standing on the precipice of something.

He’s just about to order a retreat, when he sees Reno reach out to one of the crystals at eye-height, something dazed in her expression.

“Commander – ” he starts, voice loud in the echoing cavern, but it’s already too late. Her bare fingers land on the crystal and she gasps.

Cursing, Chris moves forward, but before he has made it more than a few steps, Reno turns her head towards him and Saru, a hint of orange tint to her eyes even as the crystal begins to pulse and says, monotone, “Some days I’m glad my wife didn’t make it through the war, didn’t have to watch the slaughter, didn’t have to live through my supposed death.”

The glow fades and with another gasp Reno stumbles backwards, detaching from the crystal. The horror in her expression only there for a moment before she shutters it.

She doesn’t react when Chris steps closer, radiating concern. “Commander? What happened? Reno?”

She’s still silent, caught in some scene playing in her mind, he suspects, so he softens his voice even further and lays a light hand on her shoulder, a grounding to reality. “Jett, are you alright?”

That snaps her out of it, some life coming back to her eyes. “I’m fine. That was just...” She searches for a word, clearly comes up with nothing and ends with, “unexpected.”

“I’ll bet,” Chris says, carefully keeping his voice light. “Did the crystal… attack you?”

She frowns, a slightly shaky hand coming up to rub at the back of her head even as she finally steps away from his hand, not commenting on its previous presence. He pulls it back silently, heeding the unspoken wish.

“I wouldn’t call it an attack. I felt no sentience from the crystal, or malice, just an... imperative.” She shivers. “I had no control over what I said.”

“An imperative to do what, exactly?” he asks, careful, but he can’t see his way around having to ask the question.

Something dark passes through Reno’s eyes. “Truth,” she says shortly.

That – doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but one thing is becoming clearer. “Alright, I think we should leave it at that. Commander Saru, did you get all the readings you need?”

“I did, Captain.” Saru hesitates, eyes flickering to the silent Reno. “Should we bring back one of the crystals for further study?”

Chris pictures it, having a crystal on board that can make someone blurt out some kind of painful truth they wouldn’t otherwise have voiced. Scientifically it would make for interesting study, probably, but strategically, he’d rather not have it on the ship, and he can’t see a practical application for it that’s not extremely _unkind_.

“Negative. We’ll bring back the data, but as far as I’m concerned these crystals compromise the crew’s safety. Command can squabble over it if they disagree.”

The tense line of Reno’s shoulders relaxes the tiniest fraction and Saru doesn’t protest his decision either.

Once they’ve put some distance between themselves and the building full of crystals, Chris turns a serious gaze on Reno. “You won’t be required to disclose the exact nature of your ‘truth’ in the report. Describe the effect, but no one needs to know exactly what it was, it’s not relevant information. I promise they won’t hear it from me either.”

“Nor me,” Saru puts in.

“Thank you, Captain, Commander,” she says quietly, eyes dark.

“Don’t thank me, I’m also making you report to sickbay for a check-up,” Chris tells her, a little bit droll over underlying concern. He waves a hand. “Just to make sure there’s nothing permanently out of whack.”

He’s glad to see the scowl return to her face.

(4)

In Chris’ experience every conversation with Ensign Sylvia Tilly resembles nothing so much as a space jump without a safety parachute and strong winds near the planet – very unpredictable but a hell of a lot of fun. So to say that he was puzzled and concerned when she suddenly shouted at him on the bridge would be an understatement. Things happened rather quickly after that, between Amanda Grayson’s visit, being told that Spock killed three people while escaping Starbase 5 (still an utterly ludicrous notion; the Spock he knows wouldn’t kill _anyone_ in cold blood, much less innocents), and the near-catastrophe with the sphere.

_Then _Ensign Tilly gets kidnapped to the mushroom reality, saved alongside a doctor who was supposed to be _dead_, and now Chris has literally run into her on his early morning run.

What’s least surprising about all this is that the Ensign looks like hell.

Chris keeps her upright with both hands, smiling sheepishly. “My apologies, Ensign. I should’ve looked where I was going.”

She’s still swaying a little, so he lets go only slowly, poised to jump in if she does collapse. Tilly blinks at him slowly, then shakes her head as if to clear it. “No, sorry, no,” she says, a little high-pitched, “I wasn’t looking either. Sorry, Captain.”

“No apology necessary,” he assures her, voice warm despite his concern. “Though if you do want to make it up to me, you could go and get some more sleep? Alpha shift doesn’t start for another two hours.”

She’s already shaking her head, ginger curls bouncing everywhere. “No can do, I haven’t finished my laps yet.” Her tone is brighter than her hair and entirely forced if he’s any judge. “Need to stay in shape after all!”

This leaves Chris with a bit of a dilemma. He _could _order her to stand down, even make her go see Doctor Pollard because she’s clearly either generally not alright or desperately sleep-deprived. It’s well within his purview to do so, especially if he thinks a member of his crew is risking their health unnecessarily. But. (And isn’t there always a but.) He knows the look in her eyes, understands the impulse to run when there’s too much going through your mind. Confining her in sickbay might not help her in a case like this, and at worst even be cruel. And he does try respect his people’s judgement. She may be young, but she has earned that right over and over.

Chris makes a snap decision – which he either excels at or does terribly, depending on who you ask. He’ll tell Burnham to keep an eye on her throughout the day, not that she isn’t likely already doing so.

“In that case, allow me to accompany you,” he says, stepping back and turning so he’s facing her running direction. He hasn’t phrased it as an order, but it’s not a request easily denied.

Tilly looses a little squeak, eyes widening, but recovers enough to say, “Right, yes, of course, Captain, why wouldn’t a Captain be jogging with a lowly Ensign, this is perfectly normal.”

Chris flashes her a quick grin, starting to jog in place. “You coming or what?”

Tilly is still muttering under her breath, but obediently starts jogging again, at first a tiny bit wobbly but quickly building up steam. Chris adjusts his stride to match her speed, keeping a watchful eye but not otherwise interfering. If Tilly needs to run to deal with her recent experiences, he’ll damn well do his best to let her run while making sure she doesn’t drive herself to collapse.

It becomes a thing for the next couple of weeks.

Chris goes on his morning run and does about half his laps until Tilly emerges and they continue running together. They don’t talk about it, or anything else. In fact, it’s one of the few times during the day that Ensign Tilly is entirely quiet, focusing on running and breathing instead. He doesn’t know if it’s because she doesn’t see him as someone she can talk to (previous experience indicates this is not the case) or whether it’s something more positive than that, that he’s somehow giving her a chance to be quiet, to just _be_ without any expectation of talking. Not that it really matters as long as it helps her, and so far Tilly hasn’t shown any sign that she’d like to discontinue their mutual running time. It would be easy, after all. She could just not show up, or go running at a different time.

What does matter is that, slowly, the dark circles under Tilly’s eyes recede and her exuberance becomes natural again, rather than manic.

These days, he doesn’t worry about catching her if she collapses and instead has started to note how her lap times are improving. A couple of times Chris has caught her glancing at him, opening her mouth as if to say something and then thinking better of it.

Still there are better and worse days. On one of the latter, Tilly looking tired and small in a way that doesn’t fit her personality at all, Chris catches another of her glances, almost guilty-looking, and makes another decision.

“Do you play chess, Ensign?” he asks, balancing on one leg as he stretches out his hamstring.

Tilly looks up, startled. “Um, yes, sometimes, I room with Michael, uh Commander Burnham that is.”

“At ease, Tilly,” Chris says, kind. “I do know Burnham’s first name.”

“Of course you do!” Back to mania. “You two talk all the time! Uh, not that there’s anything wrong that.”

Chris blinks. It’s a bit like watching a runaway ship about to collide with an asteroid.

“Anyway, Michael gets, like, _weirdly_ intense about chess, you should play her some time, you’d like it. Um.”

Chris only just stops himself from asking why exactly he would like Burnham being intense about chess (mostly because he already knows the answer and isn’t entirely comfortable with Tilly knowing it too).

“I’ve played chess with Commander Burnham before,” he says, mild, and starts walking.

Tilly follows, face truly alight for the first time this morning. “Ooh, tell me, have you ever won? ‘Cause Michael is pretty much the card shark equivalent of the chess world, I’m sure of it.”

Chris smiles at her. “A couple of stalemates is the best I’ve managed so far,” he answers, electing not to mention the one time he actually won, by the skin of his teeth, because he’s pretty sure Michael was distracted that day. Even the stalemates he had only managed because he has spent five years losing horribly to Spock at least once a week, duties permitting.

Tilly’s expression says she’s impressed nonetheless, but it quickly morphs into curiosity when Chris toggles the door to the officer’s lounge and waves her in.

“Am I allowed to be in here?”

Chris smirks, leading the way over to the corner of the room where a few chess boards are already set up. The _Enterprise _has something similar – maybe chess is just one of those crew-independent phenomena on a starship. “Well, if hanging out with the Captain doesn’t come with some perks, what’s the point?” He waves a hand towards the choice of boards. “Traditional or 3D?”

“It’s too early in the morning for 3D chess,” Tilly groans. “And you should make that an official memo or something, so Michael can stop trying to trap me while I’m not awake yet.”

“I’m afraid you’re on your own for that one,” Chris says, resetting the pieces of the holographic 2D board.

Chris waits until they’re a few moves into the game before he asks, “So are you going to tell me what you’ve been dying to say for the last week or so?”

He looks up from the board to find Tilly biting her lip, hand hovering over a pawn.

“I never thanked you,” she blurts out, “for not making a big deal out of it that one time I, you know, shouted at you on the bridge, which is pretty high on my list of mortifying things I’ve done and that’s a _long_ list. As you can probably imagine. Um.”

Chris really can’t help his frown. “You were playing unwilling host to a semi-hostile alien lifeform at the time, of course I didn’t make a fuss about it.” He shakes his head. “No thanks are necessary, Ensign.”

Tilly continues fiddling with the pawn, tone a little subdued. “It was still nice of you. It’s just nice having a nice Captain, you know?” She winces. “And I’ve used the word ‘nice’ about three times too many in the last minute and you don’t need to hear this anyway. Forget I ever said anything?”

The first time Chris had overheard the admiralty using ‘the nice one’ as a moniker when discussing him he’d been more than a little indignant. Surely _nice _wasn’t the defining characteristic of his command style? The older he gets, however, the more he comes to appreciate the judgement.

So he only smiles at Tilly, who’s looking slightly like she’s expecting to be shouted at any second even though she’s just declared him to be nice.

“I appreciate the sentiment.”

Tilly deflates with relief. “Oh, good. For a moment there I thought I’d managed to actually offend you, and you’re, like, the definition of unoffendable.”

Chris decides not to point out the obvious holes in that logic. Propping his elbow up on the table, since the chess game isn’t really going anywhere anyway, he rests his chin on his closed hand. “Having now established that base-line, are you going to tell me what else is on your mind?”

She points her finger at him. “It’s freaky how you command types do that.”

“You’re aiming to become one of us command types, remember?” Chris says, dry. She’ll figure out soon enough that a surprisingly large amount of command training is about learning to read others.

Tilly’s face does something complicated at that, and Chris almost straightens reflexively. Seems like he accidentally hit on whatever topic has her so preoccupied.

“Yes, well, I was trying to figure out whether I should thank you for risking the whole ship and crew to rescue me from the mycelial network. _Obviously _I appreciate it, but I wasn’t sure whether it would, I don’t know, be insulting to thank you for it. You were doing as a Captain should, and it didn’t really matter whether the person was me or someone else and it feels weird to presume on that, but on the other hand I really am so grateful because getting stuck in magical spore land for the rest of my short life isn’t exactly on my list of goals – ”

“And _breathe_,” Chris says, halfway between impressed and concerned at how many words she’d just managed to cram into the last few seconds.

Tilly shoots him a slightly sheepish look, closes her mouth for about two seconds and then continues, “I just, how do you even make that choice? It could’ve gone so wrong and then everyone would’ve died just because you didn’t leave me behind? Right now everyone thinks it was the right choice, but would it still have been the right choice if it had gone wrong?”

Chris leans back in his chair, briefly reassessing. So this is at the root of Tilly’s disquiet. As an Ensign in the Command Training Program, which is aimed at finding those who have the potential to one day captain a ship, witnessing these kinds of difficult command decisions could easily be wearing on her – a glimpse of the future she doesn’t yet know whether to embrace or turn away from.

It’s what the program is for, to provide an opportunity for promising Cadets and Ensigns to ask these kinds of questions, even if whoever they’re asking doesn’t _have_ an answer. Or perhaps especially then.

“Some Captains might answer this question differently,” he warns her. “Once you get into this kind of territory there isn’t always a consensus, or even a right choice to make for that matter.”

He thinks for a moment, looking for the best angle on her question.

“As a Captain, you have to weigh Starfleet’s morals, your own morals, your orders, and your obligation to keep _all _of your crew safe with each decision you make. In this case, the Starfleet code of honour and my own preference for not leaving any crewmember behind were in opposition to my general orders – investigate the red signals – which we could not do if we all died in a rescue attempt, and the assured safety of all other crewmembers. However, there are mitigating circumstances for both of those latter points.”

He holds up one finger.

“Assuming that we wouldn’t all perish, crew morale would not only be much higher after a successful rescue attempt, we would also still have your expertise to draw on. Both results that would aid the ship’s overall ability to carry out our orders.”

He raises a second finger.

“If the rescue plan went smoothly, no other crewmembers would come to harm. Now, I freely admit that I hated aspects of our plan to get you, which was, quite frankly, more than a little insane. But I, personally, trusted the crewmembers who came to me with the plan to know what they’re doing, _and _we had a specific timeline. A window of opportunity in which to reach you, while still being able to disengage the ship if we couldn’t. It would still have been a failure, but it matters _how_ you fail – having tried, rather than given up at the outset.”

Chris sighs, remembering other decisions, some of which had turned out well and some of which hadn’t. “Weighing all of those concerns, in this case I decided to go ahead with the rescue mission. As long as it works out, no one’s likely to quibble with you overmuch. If it doesn’t… Well, you never can tell what the history books are going to say.”

He catches Tilly’s gaze, glad to find her pensive but not spooked. “Nor should you think about how history will judge you. You make the best decision you can in every given moment, as the final authority on your ship, not based on perceived approbation or condemnation. The buck stops with you, and you should only become a Captain if that’s something you can live with.” Anyone would look a little freaked out after a speech that long, so he adds, “Which is one of the reasons why it takes so long to become a Captain. The experience you gather as bridge crew and First Officer is invaluable and _will _make this less daunting.”

Chris smiles, a small lop-sided thing. “Now, if I haven’t scared you off entirely, we should both get to our shifts.”

Tilly nods, still looking deep in thought, but not like she’s liable to bolt any second, which is a positive sign as far as he’s concerned. He wasn’t going to lie to her, but usually these kinds of questions get answered (and asked) quite a bit later on in the program. Trust Ensign Sylvia Tilly to be ahead of the curve here too.

(5)

A sour taste has been lingering in his mouth and it has nothing to do with Essof IV’s toxic air. Chris had known, going in, that the day was going to be bad, but even he hadn’t expected a clusterfuck of quite this proportion and is now finding himself wishing very hard that he could use that kind of language in his report because normal expletive-free words just aren’t cutting it.

Chris stares at the PADD, the ‘unfinished text document’ icon blinking accusingly. Never mind what command is going to say, he isn’t sure he can forgive _himself_ for the last 24 hours.

Their part of it had worked out more or less according to plan, courtesy of Spock defying his direct orders, aside from the sheer, gut-wrenching horror that had been Michael slowly dying down on the planet below while he just _watched_. It had gone against every fibre of his being and even now he isn’t sure the choice to let this insane plan go ahead was the right one, outcome be damned.

He had knowingly sent a member of his crew out to die as bait, despite his better judgement. What does that make him?

_Michael_._ Oh Michael_.

No wonder that Michael’s mother had taken him to task. Sometimes Chris wants to shove ‘for the greater good’ and ‘acceptable risk’ and ‘we _have _to do this, there’s no other choice’ to the back of a closet and never let them out again.

Chris had seen the look on Michael’s face when she returned, the loss of hope in someone who’s always been so strong. And how could she not? They’d lost half the sphere data already, have no plan how to protect the other half, and she lost her mother _again_, to a future she can never fully return from. Anyone would be dispirited at best, and the galaxy has done nothing but throw shit at Michael in recent months, as if actively trying to find her breaking point.

On a more personal level, Chris hates that he can do nothing for her. She’s obviously hurting and finding no outlet for it other than burying herself in her mother’s mission logs, which Chris suspects only really makes the hurt worse.

His own helplessness mixes with empathy of her situation, made even more pressing by the fact that it’s _Michael_, in the worst way. He can’t bring her mother back to her. He can’t undo the years she has spent missing her parents, the lingering traumas inflicted by her experiences on Vulcan, the fractured relationship with her brother. He can and will try to help save the future, but so far Control has outmanoeuvred them at every turn and Chris doesn’t honestly see that changing. He can’t even _talk_ to her because Michael has been avoiding talking to anyone (except possibly Spock). And even if he did, what could he say that would make any of this more bearable?

That Chris misses their quiet, honest talks, the occasional chess game in his ready room, is beside the point. Given Michael’s formidable reputation, he hadn’t expected her to be so open in front of him when he first arrived, yet she had shared her own truths almost as easily as he had his, from the very first day.

It’s really not such a mystery how he started seeing her as more than a member of his bridge crew, and in time more than a friend too. She’s smart, compassionate, fully determined to do the right thing, the _honourable_ thing, and, yes, he likes taking care of his partners so her willingness to show vulnerability in front of him hadn’t exactly impeded his regard.

Occasionally he’d even seen glimpses of a similar fondness on her part.

None of that disguises the fact that he really shouldn’t open this particular door, no matter how much he wants to.

Chris has never much been one for casual relationships – it takes time for him to become attracted to someone, and once he has come that far, love is usually not far behind. Besides he’s now old enough to seriously think about settling down with the right person. It hadn’t really felt like a priority for a long time. By and large he likes his life and knows that he’s doing something worthwhile with it, but lately loneliness is catching up with him in ways it didn’t use to.

The thought of starting something with Michael, who, on his more maudlin days, seems like exactly the person he has been waiting for all these years, only to lose her again a few weeks or months later due to their different postings is… pretty close to unbearable. And he knows that she wouldn’t leave the _Discovery _behind, just like he can’t give up on the _Enterprise_. They both have people counting on them, greater callings that play havoc with personal decisions.

That is all supposing that they live through the next few days and Control’s attempts at eradicating them, the ship and all they hold dear.

Actually, when put like that, approaching her becomes all the more tempting, to find a little bit of solace before the end.

On the other hand, as Captain there’s a certain power imbalance in any relationship he might attempt with a crewmember, and while he has faith that Michael would be able to say no to him, he doesn’t really want to put anyone in a position where they might feel pressured. That was one of the things he promised himself when he made Captain and has stood by since then.

The PADD is still blinking at him.

Chris sighs explosively, tosses it onto the desk and stands, feet reflexively taking him over to the viewport. Leaving the issues of a potential relationship aside, he still hasn’t come up with a way to support Michael _right now_, in any kind of tangible way.

The blurring stars, as usual, provide no answer.

It’s no use pondering it further – he already knows that the only thing he actually _can _do is talk to her, however little it will help. But he has to at least try.

Chris is fully willing to track her down, but when he reaches the door to her and Tilly’s quarters, the light indicates someone is in. He presses the buzzer and a moment later the door slides open.

Michael straightens from a very uncharacteristic slouch on the left bed. Her eyes are shadowed, a little red around the edges, and Chris catches the tail-end of the motion that minimises screens as he steps through the doors.

Ensign Tilly is nowhere in sight.

Michael doesn’t look surprised to see him, which either means she was expecting him to track her down eventually or that she’s moved beyond being surprised by anything after the last few hours.

The need to get this right is almost a physical weight on his chest.

_Are you alright?_

The answer is obvious.

_What do you need?_

Impossible things.

So he settles for even less than that.

“What can I do?” he asks, quiet and intense even though he tries to keep it light.

Something in her expression splinters.

“Illogical things,” Michael says, voice a little lost.

Chris smiles, waits, because she already knows his opinion on logic and Vulcans and appropriate times and places.

“Can you not… be the Captain right now?” she finally asks, the barest hint of hesitation evolving into resolve halfway through the sentence.

Without hesitation he undoes the zip on his jacket, shrugs it off and drapes it over a chair, command badge obscured.

He stands in his dark undershirt, content to follow her lead. Michael slowly steps forward, no fear anywhere in her bearing, just a little caution and a lot of determination.

“We’ve waited long enough,” she says, now close enough to touch. “I can make my own decisions.”

The stark acknowledgement arrests his breath. Suspecting that she returns his feelings really isn’t the same as hearing it, out loud, spoken with such conviction. Whatever apprehension may have remained melts away like moisture in his home desert’s sun. That she knows him well enough to understand why he had held back (to realise, in fact, that he _had_), perhaps waited this long until she neared a breaking point of a different kind out of deference to his hang-ups, makes for a heady feeling, tempered by fondness. It’s a little hard sometimes to believe that Michael Burnham exists.

His lips quirk. “I never doubted it. But the first move needed to be yours.”

Michael nods, accepting that, and then it’s her turn to smile wryly. “And our timing is not the best.”

“No,” he says on a sigh, a little more tension leaving him at this continued proof that they really are on the same wavelength. “That would probably have been too much to ask, given our lives.”

Her expression gentles, a hand coming up to lightly brush his jaw. “I may not be an expert in this,” - there’s something a little dark in that, too, and Chris can’t help but hope that one day he can eradicate that particular blight - “but I know this wasn’t born of the wrong reasons.”

Chris leans into her fingers, eyes closing. That simple touch is enough to tighten his throat almost painfully, emotions he had suppressed for months rising to the surface. He breathes through it, giving it a moment before he tries to reassert control.

“You just lost your _mother_,” he whispers, acutely aware of the way her fingers move with his jaw as he speaks, pinpricks of heat.

Chris half expects her touch to disappear at the reminder, but instead a tremor shakes through her into him and all the pain and grief is visible there on her face for the galaxy to witness. Chris hadn’t wanted to see it again but makes himself anyway because she deserves his regard for this too, not just for the times that love is easy.

“It’s a factor,” she admits, voice barely loud enough to be heard in the stillness of her quarters, yet laced with steel. “I needed the push. I don’t want to keep wasting time that we’ll never get back.”

His breath shudders through him because he _knows _that feeling, has fought it all this time and it makes sense for her to feel it now. He truly doesn’t want to fight her draw any longer and that’s almost as much of a relief as finding it confirmed that she cares for him too.

“I think,” she pronounces, so deliberate it’s almost clipped, her gaze, suddenly intent and filled with heat, “that you are worth it. We are worth it.”

Chris could no more help the smile that lights up his face than he could stop the Earth sun from setting.

“A sound assessment,” he says, voice heavy with all the words he could say and doesn’t need to because she hears them anyway. A little shift of his head allows him to brush his lips over Michael’s palm, her heartbeat pulsing against his lips.

She makes a noise then, a quiet little gasp of wonder and before his conscious brain has caught up he’s shifting forward to draw Michael into a gentle embrace. She sighs, body going limp as her head comes to rest against his shoulder. For a little while they just breathe, her hand now stroking the dip between his shoulder blades, almost absently, his hands clasped in the small of her back.

They fit in ways he had only ever dreamed of before and somehow the small damp patch on his shoulder where Michael finally allows herself to expunge some of her grief doesn’t make the moment feel any less like one to be treasured. It’s not a reflection on him that she needs this time to let go and it doesn’t dampen their equally real joy at finding their way to each other. Or rather, it is a reflection on him, but a good one because she trusts him to hold her while she grieves, and not to judge.

He would do a whole lot more to afford her some solace than stand with her, take some of her weight, murmur words of comfort in her ear. But that’s what he does because that’s what she has asked him to do.

Eventually her quiet sobs subside, Chris feeling some of the tension leech from the muscles under his hands.

“Thank you,” she whispers into his neck.

He kisses the crown of her head. “Always, Michael.”

She sighs a little, cuddling closer and Chris tightens his grip around her waist. “I thought nothing would help,” she tells him, with that same startling honesty he has always admired about her, “but you… _ease_ the pain. For a bit.”

Chris smiles into her hair. “I’m glad.”

Michael pulls back finally, her body as reluctant as his to let go, but it’s worth it to see her smile directed at him because there’s something disarmingly sweet in it, that he has never seen on her before.

He’s probably looking a little astonished again because her smile turns wicked as she moves forward, head angling up.

The kiss, when it finally comes, is even better than he had guiltily imagined, a slow, deliberate slide that sends heady warmth hurtling through his veins and comfort tingling through his lips.

They draw back, Michael’s eyes as wide as his own and liquid in the dim lighting.

Chris shakes his head, a little rueful at his own sudden descent into overblown romanticism (he’s hardly a blushing schoolboy anymore after all), a smile nonetheless tugging at his lips. “You’re something else, Michael Burnham.”

She pokes at his chest, answering smile banishing the shadows from her eyes, if only for a little while. “You’re one to talk, Captain Perfect.”

Chris raises a brow.

Michael’s shrug is a tad sheepish. “Blame Tilly for that one.”

“I will,” he assures her solemnly and just like that they’re both laughing until they’re breathless with it.

Eventually, seriousness returns, but perhaps with slightly less bite to it than before. “Where do we go from here? The future – ”

Chris shakes his head, pressing his forefinger to her lips. “Is the future. Worry about the present, Michael, while it’s still there to be enjoyed.”

That’s another thing not everyone knows about Chris Pike – once he commits to a course of action, he _commits_.

She frowns at him a little and he obediently drops his finger, hiding a smile.

“That argument is flawed,” she tells him, in that very specific tone of voice she always adopts when she thinks someone already knows something and is playing stupid for some reason incomprehensible to a Vulcan-raised logical mind.

“Maybe, but that’s not quite what I meant.” He draws a hand through his hair, fingers already itching to be back on her skin. “I know you’ll do everything you can to stop Control and I will do the same. Maybe we’ll all be dead soon. Maybe we succeed and I’ll go back to the _Enterprise_. But none of those are choices we can make right now.” He gives in to the urge and brushes his hand along Michael’s nape, watches her shiver ever so slightly. “Do I hope we’ll have a future? Yes, I do. But right now, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

That lights a smile on Michael’s face, with a self-deprecating slant he doesn’t like but can’t exactly point out without coming across like a massive hypocrite.

“I’ve never been very good at just… _being_.”

“I know,” Chris says. “I hope one day you’ll have the time to learn.”

Her smile sweetens, and at least for a little while, they have peace.

(6)

Chris is attempting to pack the last of his essential belongings to take over to the _Enterprise _once she catches up with the _Discovery_ when the computer informs him of a visitor outside his door.

Frowning a little because the only person he can think of who might want to come by right now is Michael and she has the access code, he orders the door open.

Doctor Culber steps through the doorway, coming very close to standing to attention in front of Chris.

“Doctor Culber.” Chris hastily clears a stack of valuable paper books off a chair and waves the man into it. “What can I do for you? Is there a problem in sickbay?”

Culber shakes his head. Chris doesn’t know the man well, but is pretty sure he looks uncomfortable.

“No sir, medical is fine. I’m here on a personal errand.”

Chris raises a brow. “Oh?”

“I wanted to ask your permission to permanently transfer aboard the _Enterprise_,” Culber says stiffly. He’s staring straight ahead, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Not the look of a man who’s at ease with his decision.

_Dammit, this is going to break Stamets’ heart. More than it already is._

“Doctor,” Chris says slowly, trying to give himself time to find the right words beyond the obvious acceptance, “you have stellar credentials and proven yourself in extreme situations. The _Enterprise _would be happy to have you. However, and forgive me for being nosy, are you certain this is the right decision for you?” He catches Culber’s gaze, giving him a slightly lop-sided smile. “Not many people are afforded a second chance, and I really do hope that you’re making this decision for the right reasons.”

There’s something devastated in Culber’s dark eyes that mirrors what Chris sees in Stamets’ every time he runs into the man. “With all due respect, Captain, my personal reasons aren’t relevant here.”

“No, they’re not,” Chris agrees, frank. “But you and Lieutenant Commander Stamets are both good people who are in a lot of pain right now. If distance truly is the best thing for you, I won’t badger you further, but if you’re requesting a posting on the _Enterprise _because you think it’ll be easier, I would advise you to think again. The post will be there waiting for you if you choose to take it either way.”

Chris himself is trying very hard not to get his hopes up about Michael staying on the _Enterprise _once the _Discovery _is gone. They haven’t had time to talk about it and now is not the time to get distracted.

Culber swallows hard. “What do _you_ know about it?”

It might’ve sounded combative, were the words spoken in a tone of voice that wasn’t quite so lost.

“Stamets and I talk, occasionally.” Chris grins at Culber’s gobsmacked look. “Oh, I know, he isn’t exactly the chatty type, but we were stuck for a couple of hours in a turbolift once and I can be quite persuasive.” He leans in conspiratorially. “When you’re dealing with someone who’s that fascinated with mushrooms, there’s a lot of scope for jokes about growing on him.”

Culber makes a choked noise as the joke lands, like a man who hasn’t laughed about anything in a while and isn’t quite sure he’s allowed anymore.

“I’ll believe that, sir,” Culber says, wry and completely controlled again already.

Chris would be impressed, but Doctors as good as Culber are a special breed and he expected nothing less. He nods and leans back again, returning to a professional distance. “Just think about it, will you Doctor?” He winks. “I promise I won’t meddle any further as long as you do.”

Culber sags back into the chair. Indecision flickers in his eyes, worse than when he’d come in. It gives Chris hope that maybe those two will get their act together before it’s too late, though neither path will likely be easy for them.

“It’s a deal.”

Chris smiles. “Then go get your stuff packed.”

Culber departs with a last respectful nod, leaving Chris to his unfortunate task of deciding which of his belongings to fit into the small duffel he’ll carry over to his other ship. He really shouldn’t have brought so much of his stuff over to the _Discovery_ but hindsight is always clearer. Besides, it had mostly been Una’s fault anyway. Her idea of a joke – which she’ll probably regret once most of his belongings are so much spacedust. Chris can probably milk that for sympathy for a while at least.

If only he had the time to steal another moment with Michael before the transfer, but both of them have too many duties to attend to.

_The life of a Captain_, he muses a little sardonically, not for the first time. _Have to love it so you don’t end up hating it._

(+1)

The revelation of what exactly he’s in the middle of slams into Chris as soon as he opens his mouth to shout at the cadets to evacuate. He had seen this scene before, ten years ago, right down to every detail.

It’s still not the end he would’ve wished for himself.

It’s still a hidden misery he’s tried his best not to dwell on for a decade.

It’s still unavoidable.

So he evacuates the cadets, makes the choice again, that his own future isn’t worth letting a single one of these bright young people die and the blast doors slam shut behind the last of them.

Any second now heat will turn to unbearable pain, but he doesn’t close his eyes, keeps his shoulders square to meet his fate.

And then – everything freezes.

Chris had heard accounts that for some people time slows down right before their death, but this seems a bit extreme. A chemical reaction that should’ve burned him to a crisp within a second has stopped in its tracks. The console is still glowing as if about to erupt, but fails to actually do so. Flames are caught mid-flicker. Perhaps strangest of all is the silence – the blaring alarm has cut off, there’s no crackling of flames, no screaming, only his own harsh breathing at all audible. Breathing that speeds up when his ears register a gentle _whoosh_ of displaced air behind him and he turns, half expecting exactly what he sees.

The Red Angel hovers a metre off the ground, wings extended, backlit by the same red light that had given the suit its name.

There isn’t any moisture left in his mouth, seared away by heat and fear, but he swallows hard nonetheless.

“Michael?” he whispers, afraid the answer is no. Afraid the answer is yes, and he will fail to do the right thing in its wake.

The faceplate slides away and Chris’ eyes latch onto the beloved face beneath, a familiar pain in his heart. Of all the people he has lost over the years, he has missed Michael Burnham the most. Her features are almost unchanged, a little older perhaps, crow’s feet fanning away from her eyes. A distant part of him notes that it makes her look distinguished.

“_Chris_,” she says, and her voice is exactly the same.

There are tears in his eyes he doesn’t even bother to try and blink away as he steps forward, drawn by an invisible tether, only to stop shy of reaching her. “How are you _here_? Is this real? An illusion?”

Michael’s expression gentles in sympathy. “Not an illusion,” she assures him, and the clunk of her boots as she lands on the deck sounds reassuringly heavy. But a pernicious kernel of doubt persists alongside the astonishment and longing. He has experienced too many falsehoods in his life that had felt entirely real even knowing that they weren’t to believe quite so readily.

Michael steps forward, her gloved hand reaching out to grip his shoulder, a solid weight. “I don’t have the time to prove it, a single time crystal can only freeze everything for a few minutes.” She catches his gaze, holds it, just as intense as she had been a lifetime ago. “Trust me?”

Chris closes his eyes, everything in him screaming only one thing, possible illusion be damned. “Always,” he says, a scraping sound torn from his throat.

Michael smiles and his breath catches for the third time in as many minutes. “Then get in the suit.”

She steps aside and Chris, who had been solely focused on her and forgotten every lesson he had ever learned about being aware of his surroundings catches sight of a second Red Angel suit, same basic design, but a little larger.

It takes a moment for his brain to catch up.

“What? No, I can’t.” _Oh, how he wants, though, everything she’s offering_. “That’s not... how it ends.”

But Michael is shaking her head. “I know what the crystal showed you on Boreth,” she says voice tight and Chris realises with a jolt that the tightness comes from _rage_. He has never heard her this angry before. “And I hate that you had to live with that for so long. But your fate is _not_ set. You’ve saved the cadets, you’ve done everything Starfleet has ever asked of you and more, and little will be changed if you disappear now rather than living that, that half-life for the rest of your days.”

He wants to believe her badly enough he can taste it on his tongue, but still he hesitates “How can you know? That this won’t make the future worse.”

“We don’t have time. Stop thinking of everyone else for once in your life and do what your heart wants,” Michael pleads, hand clenching on his shoulder as something on her wrist beeps a warning.

Chris startles because it _is_ a plea and if it weren’t for that small voice at the back of his mind asking _what if this makes it worse? What if my selfish choice leads to others suffering? _he would already have given in.

Michael either sees him waver or loses the last of her patience. Her tone of voice wouldn’t have been out of place on an Admiral overseeing a firefight. “Trust me, Christopher Pike, and _get in that suit_.”

Chris gets in the suit. His mother raised him right, after all, even before Starfleet became his life.

The suit closes around his body like an old friend, fitting perfectly.

Before Chris can do anything but marvel at the responsiveness of the exoskeleton, Michael steps in until they’re chest to chest, guiding his arms to hold on to her.

“Magnetise,” she orders, and their suits latch together, leaving their bodies entwined. “Hold on to me,” Michael whispers, “in three, two, one – ”

The last syllable is ripped from her lips as they’re catapulted upwards, reeled in by the suit’s anchor in the future. No amount of experience as a test pilot could’ve prepared him. It feels like being pressed into a single atom and drawn apart to scatter across the galaxy at the same time. He’s pretty sure he’s either not breathing or screaming and the ride just keeps gaining in intensity right up until the point everything stops again.

Chris gasps for air, wobbling dangerously as soon as Michael de-magnetises their suits.

“It’s quite a ride, isn’t it?” Michael says, amusement lacing her voice and even as his heartbeat starts to come down again and breathing stops feeling like a chore, Chris is hit all over again by the fact that Michael is _here_, really here because no illusion could’ve possibly simulated that exhilarating, terrifying trip. Here, in front of him, smiling widely as his visor retreats and he stops seeing data streams everywhere.

“Where,” he starts, then actually tears his gaze away from Michael’s radiant face and takes in his surroundings. The deeply familiar surroundings. “We’re on the _Discovery_?”

Michael nods, still smiling, as if she just can’t stop. “And there are so many people waiting to see you.”

Chris shakes his head, torn between wonderment and disbelief still.

“This is real, right? Michael, promise me this is real.”

In response, Michael taps a few buttons on her wrist computer and her Red Angel suit opens up. She steps out, waiting for Chris to replicate her actions and step onto the deck. Then her arms are around him, warm and solid and sudden sense memory flares up, his body remembering her touch in a way his mind hadn’t, no matter how much he had fought forgetting.

He sags into her secure hold, never at risk of falling but unable for just a moment to take his own weight.

“I promise this is real,” Michael says, voice low and sincere and Michael has never lied to him in a personal conversation.

He sags a little further.

“Welcome to the future, Chris Pike.”

With Michael solid against him, holding him tightly and her scent in his nose, the future can take a hike as far as Chris is concerned. He had never really allowed himself to dream of seeing Michael again after she’d disappeared through the wormhole. It hadn’t seemed possible, and the dream one pain too many. To have it be reality now, when he’d made a miserable sort of peace with a future spent trapped in a husk of a body – there are no words.

It feels appropriate somehow, that it’s him this time, who’s wetting her shoulder with tears.

Eventually he pulls back, hand lingering on the side of Michael’s face for a while before he can tear himself away. It’s telling that she lets him, a soft smile on her face.

Not that his efforts to disengage are of much use when Michael’s smile broadens and she leans forward to drag him into a kiss his dazed mind can only describe as scorching. What contact they had previously shared had been gentle, more about comfort than passion, but this? This is a declaration of intent, and Chris loves her all the more for it.

Reality reasserts itself once their lips part. The rest of the crew. 900 years in the future. He can do this.

Chris pats at his hair in a vain attempt to corral mussed strands as his heartbeat slows down to acceptable levels and Michael engages in some conscious breathings herself.

“Right then, show me this future you’ve got here?”

“They’re waiting on us in the main rec room,” Michael admits, looking a little sheepish at making them wait, but not regretful in the least.

Imagining his likely reaction to a crowd of people if she hadn’t allowed him this moment of letting go and getting his bearings, Chris winces.

“If you’re worried,” Michael says, eyes twinkling, and Chris doesn’t even attempt to deny that he’s maybe a little apprehensive about everyone else’s reaction, “once we heard what happened to you, we all agreed. Stamets and Reno built the second suit, coded to your DNA. We didn’t have another time crystal, but you really only needed something that would help you survive the trip. Tilly and Saru helped with the calculations and figured out how to use the crystal to freeze time, just for a few minutes.” Her lips twitch. “Owo and Detmer came up with a plan how I could knock you out if you decided to sacrifice yourself anyway. Culber volunteered to go so he could, I quote, ‘hypo your ass into submission if necessary’.”

Chris blinks at her, a little taken aback by this outpouring of care and concern regarding his person, from people he never forgot but hasn’t seen in ten years.

“How long has it been for you?” he asks quietly.

“Around five years since we jumped to the future.” Michael shifts a little on her feet, lips turning down. “It took us a while to find our feet here and even longer to figure out some of the details of your rescue plan.”

Chris holds up a stalling hand. “I’m not criticising you in the least,” he clarifies, warmth infusing his tone. “That you came to get me at all is...” He shakes his head. “Frankly, things would be even stranger if less time had passed for you. I lived ten years within your five.”

“Careful, people might start accusing you of cradle robbing,” Michael says, dry.

Chris snorts. “Good thing we live in enlightened times. Although I may have been a little concerned if it was anyone other than you.”

Michael tilts her head, making an inquisitive noise.

“I can’t really see you letting yourself be railroaded into anything you don’t want to do, or see as necessary,” he explains, as dry as she had been.

Michael smirks, but foregoes comment in favour of pointing towards the rec room door.

As soon as Chris steps through the arch, hushed murmuring gives way to a roar of sound, calls of his name interspersed with shouts of welcome and general hubbub.

The bridge crew surrounds him first – Saru, Owo, Detmer, Rhys, Bryce, all smiling and laughing. Chris shakes hands in a bit of daze, blinks through an impromptu tempestuous hug from Tilly, and catches nods from Reno, Stamets and Culber. The latter two are standing closely together, fingers touching, and that at least answers one of his more burning questions.

He may not have had as much time to get to know the rest of the crew as well as he’d liked, even the fewer essential personnel who remained on board instead of moving over to the _Enterprise_, but he remembers most everyone’s names and faces and does his best to greet every single one of them. He listens to stories of life displaced a thousand years away from their families and loved ones, observes the way Starfleet protocol and chain of command have softened into far more familial expressions on this lone ship and occasionally manages to take a bite of one of the many snacks some kind soul (probably Tilly) had strewn about the room.

Only once does his apprehension return, when he spots Michael’s mother lurking at the back of the gathering, piercing stare focussed on him. Their gazes meet, the moment stretching like taffy, then she nods at him. Chris watches her slip out the door, wondering whether he should follow or not. Perhaps she’s expecting him too. Or maybe she doesn’t want to get into the discussion concerning his intentions towards her daughter, which he doesn’t doubt she’s going to drop on his head eventually, right this moment either. They have time, after all. Miraculous, impossible time.

Shrugging to himself, he turns back to the party, and if anyone noticed his brief period of distractedness they don’t mention it.

Still, relaxed atmosphere or not, after a couple of hours, Chris is really starting to feel the lack of sleep. He may have lost his normal sense for time passing, but it feels like he hasn’t slept in days.

Michael, of course, notices him flagging.

“Let me show you to your quarters,” she says, just loud enough for people in the vicinity to catch it. “It’s been a long day.”

Chris shoots a rueful smile around the room as she tows him out, bidding the rest of the crew good night.

“Subtle,” he tells her, not bothering to hide his amusement.

Michael shrugs. “No need to be politic anymore. Not on this ship.”

He has just opened his mouth to inquire further, intrigued by the way things seem to be working now, when he gets side-tracked. He frowns. “This is the way to the Captain’s quarters.”

Michael nods, but offers no further commentary. Chris’ frown deepens. They couldn’t possibly have left the largest quarters on the whole ship untouched for five years, could they? Not for his sake. He hadn’t even _been _here.

But Michael leads him right to the doors to his old quarters, and when they open to his touch, he’s struck speechless yet again. Everything looks exactly like it did ten years ago, on his last day on the _Discovery_. The rugs, the chairs, the books he hadn’t been able to pack, the muted earth colours. Everything exactly the same.

He turns accusing eyes to Michael. “Don’t tell me you didn’t have use for these quarters. They’re the biggest on the entire damn ship.”

Michael only shrugs, clearly not at all bothered by his grumpiness. “Reordering berthing assignments wasn’t exactly a priority and Saru didn’t want to move out of his quarters.”

He noticed her sudden hesitation out of the corner of his eye and turns back from his perusal of the bookshelf, lifting an eyebrow. He’s almost certain that’s the beginning of a flush he spots on Michael’s face.

“I moved in here a while ago,” she admits, hands fidgeting with the hem of her uniform. “Tilly was getting serious with Rhys and I’d had enough of walking in on them having sex every hour of the day.”

Heat flashes through him. Michael in his rooms, in his _bed_. “A while?”

Michael clears her throat. “Around four years.”

“Four _years_ ago?” He gestures a little helplessly. “But you didn’t change anything.”

She even wears embarrassment well. “All my belongings fit in a duffle bag, Chris. And… it was a comfort, to see the room like this. I made a few changes in the bedroom.”

Chris grins, heading towards it. “Did you now?”

Changes turn out to be Michael’s chess set in the corner, her clothes in the wardrobe, a tattered copy of _Alice in Wonderland_ on the night-stand, but not much more than that. Chris might’ve teased her about it a little more, but just the sight of the bed is making him yawn.

“Will you stay?” he asks quietly.

Michael smiles. “It’s my bedroom too,” she says, and swallows his little laugh with a precisely-timed kiss.

Tomorrow, Stamets will tell him how the mycelial network is exactly the same a thousand years in the future, Tilly will show him her engagement ring, made from a bit of the hull of the _Discovery_, Reno will grump at him about another higher ranking officer she is nominally supposed to listen to turning up, Culber will submit him to the most thorough physical of his life, which personal experience says is some kind of sign of affection of all doctors everywhere, and he and Saru will argue about who has more right to give up the captaincy.

Today, he closes his eyes, one arm slung over Michael’s bare torso, and doesn’t dream of Talos or the ravages of Delta radiation.

Chris can’t think of a better beginning.

***


End file.
